Suddenly Jolival seized the telescope and clapped it to his eye with a joyful exclamation. Down below, near the little wooden fort that crowned the ruined tower, the Sea Witch was hoisting her sails. The foresail billowed out, followed by the jib. It was still blowing too hard for her to carry much sail.

"They've done it!" Jolival cried exultantly to himself. "They're away!"

It was true. In the gray light that was clearing and brightening with every second, the brig was veering gracefully, like a huge ghostly bird, setting her course for the open sea. But their bold stroke had not gone unnoticed, for Jolival heard the sound of a shot and saw the little puff of smoke break from the fort, so that it looked like a testy old man smoking a pipe. But the shot fell a long way short. The Sea Witch was already clear of the land and, scorning the efforts of her would-be keepers as contemptuously as the steep seas under her prow, was heading gloriously for the Sea of Marmara and freedom, with the stars of the United States climbing challengingly to her masthead.

Arcadius watched her for a little while with eyes that were full of tears and he was on the point of giving thanks for her escape when all of a sudden it happened… In a moment the sea was alive with sails: tall pyramids of white canvas sailing out from behind the Princes' Islands in line ahead. These were no xebecs or polaccas or any of those antiquated vessels which, however seaworthy, remained somehow pathetic. These were big, modern warships, well armed and formidable.

Jolival swore vigorously as he recognized them. A ship of the line, two frigates and three corvettes: Admiral Maxwell's squadron, moving out slowly, with the serenity of conscious power, to bar the way. What could Jason do, alone against six, even the smallest better armed than he?

Jolival saw that the brig was cramming on all sail regardless of the state of the wind and guessed that the American meant to try and make a run for it. He had the wind with him and by making skillful use of it a seaman of his quality might still succeed in giving his more powerful but less streamlined enemies the slip.

"He's mad," a voice said calmly at Jolival's side. "It takes a fine sailor to try a trick like that. It will be a pity if he runs her aground because she's a beautiful ship."

It was almost without surprise that Jolival looked around and saw the Comte de Latour-Maubourg, clad in dressing gown and nightcap and provided with another telescope, of which he appeared to possess something of a collection.

"He is a fine sailor," Jolival said. "But I've a nasty fear—"

"Me too! Because there's another thing—look there! The wind's changing… Ha, damnation! By God, what wretched luck!"

The ambassador was right. The Sea Witch's sails flapped suddenly and the vessel heeled over to the gale. Meanwhile, the English ships, which had been beating up-channel with the wind against them, now had the advantage of a following wind and were not slow to make use of it. Their tall black hulls seemed to leap over the troughs between the waves and they piled on more and more canvas as they prepared to run down the brig.

It looked as if Jason were bound to be captured. In a fight of one against six he was lost from the start and it was no longer possible for him to get up sufficient speed to outdistance his pursuers.

"But good God," Jolival muttered through clenched teeth, "what is the English squadron doing here at this of all moments? Have we been betrayed? Were they warned in advance?"

The ambassador's shortsighted eyes blinked at the vicomte in real surprise.

"Warned about what? What is this talk of a betrayal, my friend? Admiral Maxwell is on his way to the Black Sea for an inspection of the north coast harbors. The two frigates are going as escort but the corvettes will stop short at the entrance to the Bosporus."

"A tour of inspection? By an Englishman?"

The French ambassador gave vent to a deep sigh which culminated in a violent bout of coughing. He went very red in the face and vanished behind a huge handkerchief which he fished out of his dressing gown pocket. When the coughing had died down, he reappeared, still looking very flushed.

"Forgive me. I have a dreadful cold… But you were saying?"

"That it's queer to find an English squadron inspecting Ottoman defenses."

"My poor friend, can you tell me anything in these times that is not queer? Canning rules the seraglio and has the sultan in his pocket, because His Highness is relying on the English to help him bring about the great reforms he dreams of. He is also hoping for help from London in patching up some sort of decent peace with the tsar. In all of which we are very much in the way. All the old friendship is quite dead. I may well find myself persona non grata before long. The emperor has remembered us a little too late."

Being reluctant to become involved in a discussion of the international situation, Jolival put his telescope to his eye once more and uttered a startled cry. The Sea Witch had extricated herself from her predicament by going about and was now fleeing before the English under full sail, making up the Bosporus toward the Black Sea. Her topsails grew larger and more clearly visible in Jolival's glass.

Latour-Maubourg had also returned to his observation of the vessel's movements.

"May I ask whither she was bound?" he inquired.

"Charleston—in North Carolina."

"Hmm… she seems to be going the wrong way, then. I wonder what her captain hopes to find in the Euxine? I'll admit, though, you were quite right. He is a magnificent seaman."

"I'm wondering, too. Yet he must know it's a dead end. But I suppose he has no choice. It's that or see his ship taken and himself made prisoner. But I think he's simply hoping to scatter Maxwell's pack and try the passage again later, with a following wind."

"I agree. All the same, if I were he I'd haul down that American flag. It's asking for trouble. His only fear now is the guns of Rumeli Hissar."

The Sea Witch was now running fast before the wind and it was clear that she was not only managing to maintain her lead over her adversaries but was actually lengthening it appreciably. Of course, she still had to run the gauntlet of the old fortress which guarded the narrows…

"Bah!" said Latour-Maubourg, shutting up his telescope. "I daresay he'll get away with it. But now, my friend, suppose you tell me where you've been all this time and how I come to have the pleasure of finding you at the top of my tower?"

But the poor ambassador's question was fated to go unanswered because Jolival, with a brief bow and a muttered: "Forgive me, my dear sir," was already clattering down the stairs again at breakneck speed. Latour-Maubourg dashed to the stone balustrade and, leaning over so far that he all but lost his balance, called out: "Hey there! Where are you off to? Wait for me, can't you? I'm coming down!"

He might as well have held his peace, for Jolival did not hear him. He raced full tilt through the cloister, brushing past Conan as that worthy was coming forward to express the hope that his prayers had been satisfactory, tore open the heavy door, shot out into the steeply sloping street and pelted downhill to the clump of planes. As he untied one of the tethered horses, he called out to a passing street porter: "These two horses! Take them to the French embassy and say they belong to Monsieur de Jolival. Here's something for you, and you'll get as much again for your trouble."

A heavy silver coin spun through the air and landed in the man's grubby fist. He hurried to carry out the command, eager to double the unexpected windfall. Meanwhile, Jolival had set spurs to his mount and was riding as fast as the animal could carry him up the steep hill leading to the Buyukdere road. He was in a hurry to get back to Humayunabad. He had to know how Jason fared with the guns of Rumeli Hissar and, above all, he had to warn Marianne. If she happened to catch sight of Jason's brig sailing up the Bosporus instead of down, it might well be enough to throw her into a high fever.

When he reached Bebek after a frantic ride, much of it across country because of the state of the roads, he was surprised to find the place unnaturally quiet. Ordinarily the gatehouse of Turhan Bey's residence was a scene of bustling activity, with messengers arriving, bringing news from the harbor, and servants hurrying about their business, but this morning all was still.

The kapiji was smoking his pipe in the center of a crowd of grooms and stable boys who looked as if they all had been talking at once. However, they turned to greet Jolival and one of the grooms bestirred himself sufficiently to take the vicomte's horse when he dismounted and flung the reins to him.

Within the palace it was just the same. The servants stood about in little groups, chatting among themselves, and in the gardens the bostanjis, the gardeners, were also sitting on their barrows or leaning on their spades, apparently engaged in discussions of equal interest. Of Osman, the chief steward of Humayunabad, there was nothing to be seen at all.

"Perhaps they've gone on strike," Jolival thought irritably. Yet it seemed unlikely that an institution infrequent even in the West should turn up in such an implacably feudal setting as the Ottoman Empire. But if strike it was, it was Turhan Bey's concern and he, Jolival, had other fish to fry.

He went in search of Donna Lavinia, to find out if Marianne was awake and ready to receive visitors. But knocking on her door produced no answer.

The fact that Donna Lavinia was not in her room was not in itself particular cause for alarm. She was most probably with her mistress or busy caring for the baby. So it must have been some kind of premonition that prompted Jolival to open the door softly and risk a look inside.

What he saw brought a frown to his eyes. Not only did the room present that appearance of perfect impersonal tidiness which is the mark of places that are unlived in, with not a single personal object left lying about, no sign of a human presence, but even the bed was not made up. Worst of all, the baby's cradle was gone.

Feeling increasingly worried, Jolival did not waste time going around by way of the covered gallery. Instead, he made directly for the passage linking Donna Lavinia's rooms with those belonging to her mistress and burst unceremoniously in on Marianne.

She was standing in the middle of the room, barefoot and with her hair tumbling about her shoulders, dressed in a long white nightgown that fell to her toes and gave her the look of a creature out of some Celtic legend. She was clutching what looked like a sheet of paper. Her eyes were wide open and set in a strange fixed stare and tears were streaming down her cheeks onto her breast, but no sobs contracted her throat. She was weeping like a fountain, with a kind of desperation that wrung her old friend's heart. And on the floor beneath her bare toes lay something green and sparkling like a slim exotic snake.

She was so much the image of the mater dolorosa that Jolival knew at once that something catastrophic had occurred. Very softly, hardly daring to breathe, he went up to the trembling girl.

"Marianne," he whispered gently, as if he feared that the sound of his voice might exacerbate her pain. "My child, what is it?"

Without answering, she held out the paper she was clutching in her hand with the stiff movement of an automaton.

"Read it," she said simply, while the tears continued to flow uninterruptedly.

Jolival smoothed the paper mechanically and, glancing down, saw that it was a letter.

"Madame," Prince Sant'Anna had written, "as I was on the point of telling you this evening when we were interrupted, it is with the deepest gratitude that I acknowledge the magnificent way in which you have fulfilled your part in the contract between us. Never shall I be able adequately to express my indebtedness to you. Now it is my turn to keep my promise to you.

"As I have said already, you are free—perfectly free—and you will be altogether so whenever it may please you to travel to Florence, where my legal representatives, Messers Lombardi and Fosco Grazelli, will be provided with the necessary instructions for all to be settled in accordance with your wishes.

"I am removing my son this very evening rather than continue to inflict upon you a presence which, as I have been told, is even more painful to you than I had feared. When he and I are far removed you will recover more speedily and, I can only trust, will soon forget what with the passing of time will become no more than a disagreeable incident, the memory of which will gradually fade into insignificance.